He’s nothing but casual as he steps from the far side of the truck. He sees me but doesn’t seem surprised.

I, on the other hand, am quite surprised. Even though I’ve fantasized this meeting six thousand times I’m still stunned. I shouldn’t have been.

“Loren,” he says and his voice cuts me in half. He knows it. His grin is as devastating as it ever was. I can see in an instant that he’s both different and the same. His mouth still tilts into a mocking smile automatically.

But there’s a wide chasm of time between us. Somewhere in that deep gulf we went from being soul mates to being strangers. I know nothing about the way this man’s body would feel under my hands. Whatever agonies he endured after the terrible night he left, the night I coldly ordered him to leave, belong to him alone.

“Oscar,” I whisper and I don’t miss the way he stops walking, or the way his face freezes. Maybe he has an entirely new identity and the sound of the old one is unpleasant. Or maybe he’s hardened by the sound of my voice. It’s probably easy for him to hate me. This could be the start of some elaborate revenge. Obviously it’s no coincidence that he’s here now. While I’ve been wondering how I’m going to make cleaning horseshit look interesting for two months, Gary Vogel, knowing more than he ever hinted at, was scheming behind the scenes, ready to drop a bombshell. The only demand I’d ever uttered was ‘No Lita’. I should have figured out what else was up for grabs.

The cameras are here, ingesting every second. I have to say something. I have to do something. I have to not fall to my knees or run into his arms. Especially because he’s done nothing to invite me there.

“Welcome home,” I finally manage to say and it sounds strange even to me because this was never home, not really. It’s just a place. That’s all it ever was. It only matters because of the things that happened here.

Oscar Savage stares at me from ten feet away. He looks me over shrewdly and I wonder if he sees more than a pathetic woman who has signed her private life away.

“Are you staying?” I ask him, clasping my hands behind my back to keep them from trembling.

“I am,” he answers and there’s an edge to the words, like he’s daring me to argue. He watches me, all six foot two inches of bristling, resolute maleness.

I couldn’t move him if I tried.

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I love wild romantic stories, grunge era flannel, my vintage Kenmore sewing machine, embroidered dishcloths and absolutely everything that has to do with 1980s pop culture (i.e. leg warmers, scrunchies, big hair, early Madonna, boom boxes, wood paneled walls, stonewash jeans, etc). If you believe in Happily Ever After and the unique magic of a John Hughes film, chances are I'll love you too!! Join my mailing list for updates on new releases, discounts and other good stuff. http://eepurl.com/WlLYr https://www.facebook.com/CoraBrentAuthor https://www.goodreads.com/CoraBrent

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